The Venomous Watson
by always-stoked
Summary: John Watson keeps having nightmares, but Sherlock pretends he doesn't notice. However, when John has an issue with a crime scene, Sherlock is forced to confront the issue they both have been avoiding. Sherlock might be forced to admit that he needs John more than he lets on and John has to face the terrors left over from the war.
1. Chapter 1

**The Venomous Watson**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

Sherlock was used to the mutters and shouts coming from John's room; he had grown accustomed to it those first few nights. The first night it had occurred, Sherlock hadn't been sleeping anyway. He had been sitting in his armchair, thinking about a case. Who could kidnap someone in public, without being seen or reported?

His fingers had been rubbing his temples, trying to alleviate the inevitable headache that was brought on by countless cups of tea. Well, not countless. It had been almost 8 and three-fourths. He hadn't been able to finish the last one, but had thrown it against the wall in frustration, smashing the porcelain cup to bits, drops of tea sliding down the wall. For a brief moment, Sherlock had remembered his recently acquired flatmate and had cringed inwardly, preparing himself to make some sort of half hearted apology for the crash.

But John had not come out of his room as Sherlock expected. Instead, in the absolute silence, Sherlock could hear mutterings and strange noises coming from John's room. Quickly thinking, Sherlock knew there hadn't been time for John to pick up a girl to bring back to the flat, that John would be too polite to do that, and that, at 4 A.M., he certainly wouldn't be having sex with her.

So, his curiosity had been piqued and he had padded over to John's door, his feet making soft sounds on the rug. As he'd reached the door, he could hear mutterings and pick out a few words. "Afghanistan… go…. run… won't tell…" Sherlock had nodded, mystery solved. John Watson was talking in his sleep, responding to a dream. He'd then turned, and began going back to his chair to sit and think, when he'd heard a shout. Well, not really a shout, more like a scream, coming from the room he had just turned away from.

Sherlock had tensed, the shout causing him to whirl around and face the door again. Was this John reacting to the dream or was he in danger? Sherlock didn't want a murder in his second bedroom; it would make finding another flatmate so tiring and difficult. So, Sherlock had cracked open the door, poked his head through, and been greeted with the sound of a gun cocking and that very gun pointed directly at his face from a tousle-haired weary man lying in the bed.

That was the first night. Sherlock had been lucky John hadn't fired, and more so that John hadn't really remembered much in the morning. Now, so many nights later, Sherlock lay in his own bed, listening to the frantic murmurs. Each night was the same, murmurs and then sudden shouts, accompanied by John going to the kitchen for a cup of tea and then returning to bed. Each morning Sherlock would pretend he heard nothing and they would continue to solve cases.

After the pool, John's dreams had become worse and there were new words like "Sherlock… bomb… sorry...," and he was waking up sometimes twice a night. Sherlock eased back on the cases, and John never showed any fear or resistance when running through the darkened streets of London, dangerous though they were. John Watson, doctor, soldier, friend, ran when there was danger, not away, but towards. He followed Sherlock Holmes and woke up at night screaming.

Sherlock didn't think much of it, but he started noticing little things. John shifted his armchair slightly so it was turned more toward the door. John started leaning on things when he walked, as if his leg was bothering him again. His hand would twitch and clench at crime scenes. He became more irritable, snapping at Mrs. Hudson when she would misplace things around the flat. Of course, being John, he would apologize soon after and get all red in the face and embarrassed. But Mrs. Hudson was more careful around the flat after that and didn't come round nearly as often with tea and biscuits, which Sherlock missed.

Things came to a head on a particular case, The Brown Recluse, as John had named it on his ever so imaginative blog. There was a serial killer in London, one who murdered by the venom of poisonous spiders. The Recluse's killing pattern was always the same, but there was no connection between the victims.

They did not share gender; they came from a variety of age ranges, from young adults to elderly. So far there had been 4 kills, two men, one woman, and one transgender woman. The two men had been 34 and 58, the two women 20 and 46. They all had different jobs: lawyer, nurse, secretary, and chef. One was married, three had children, and two were in a relationship. They were all from different areas, one all the way from America. Of course, Scotland Yard was stumped, so Sherlock Holmes swept into the most recent crime scene, collar up and face slightly flushed with the excitement of a possible serial killer.

This was the 4th kill, a 34 year old man with sandy blond hair, one son, a chef, and engaged to his fiancé. He had been killed in the same way as the others, two small holes on the top of his left shoulder, right where the axillary artery would be. The holes went through the thick white fabric of his chef's coat. The body had not been taken to the lab yet, but they presumed it was the same as the others, spider venom that the victim was allergic too, in a mixture of conium, or hemlock, injected into a large blood vessel.

Hemlock paralyzes the victim, leaving the killer time to cut six small circles into the victims' foreheads in the pattern of a brown recluse spider, which is where the nickname came from. There are always two puncture marks, very close together going through any clothing or protection the victim might be wearing. In the midst of all of this poison and yellow tape, Sherlock Holmes had a deduction to make.

"These wounds are not made by the fangs of a spider, not a lot of spiders can bite through clothes, not unless they have particularly large fangs, and I think you might notice a man carrying around a large spider with massive fangs walking through downtown London." Sherlock rattled off, not pausing to take a breath. Seeing Detective Lestrade's confused expression, he sighed and continued, "Yes, I say the killer is a man, I'll get there. Now, in order to inject the intended victim with this sort of makeshift poison, you would have to use a syringe. Two syringes to be more precise. Since there are two punctures in the coat, it is more statistically probable that the killer used two syringes, as using one would be two injections and more work."

Sherlock paused for a moment and then barreled on. "So, the killer used two syringes to inject the deceased with hemlock and spider poison. It takes around 100 mg to paralyze an adult, so it would be easier to carry around two small syringes rather than one large one. Hemlock is only easily found in around 8 cities in the proximity of London. Norwich, London itself, Brighton, Luton, Milton Keynes, Slough, Oxford, and Southampton. It is likely that the killer does not live in London, where a garden of hemlock would cause suspicion, but rather in a smaller city. Norwich is too far north and Brighton and Southampton too far south. Slough is too conspicuous and too close to London, Oxford is too touristy. Milton Keynes and Luton are the top two choices. I, myself, prefer Luton of the two. It's slightly farther away, which I think our killer would like. Helps them avoid suspicion."

"It takes about 47 minutes to get from Luton to London, which is an inconvenient amount of time for any Londoner, but not for an American, who sometimes would drive that to work. It makes sense that the killer would be from America, probably the Midwest, as that is where the Brown Recluse spider is most common. The killer knew what dose each person would need and which kind of spider venom each person was allergic too, leading to believe he was some kind of doctor, most likely an allergist. Why else would the people let him inject them willingly? There is no sign of a struggle here, so it was a willing injection which they thought would contain some sort of allergy medication. They probably also thought he would take their shirts off first, but he's an efficient man." Sherlock took a moment to hand his phone to Lestrade, where a hospital staff website glowed faintly.

"Now, who was the allergist of all of these people? Dr. Steven J. Stokes, M.D., originally from Omaha, Nebraska. He moved here to England around 2 years ago after his house became infested with brown recluse spiders, which bit his wife when he was away for a short time on a business trip. When he returned, she had died from the bites, which sometimes happens, though rare." Sherlock paused here for dramatic effect. "So, if you go to 212 Marsh Road in Luton, you'll find your killer, venom from American spiders, and a garden of hemlock."

Lestrade cursed and turned around to bark orders at his men and corral them back to the offices to get searching for this man. Sherlock waited, slightly expectant, for John's usual praising and semi-subconscious remarks, but only silence greeted him. He turned toward the door where John had stood when they'd entered the room. John still stood there, but he wasn't the same.

Gone was the stoic soldier who stood with great posture and hands clasped behind his back. Gone was the caring doctor who would have complimented his best friend and patted him on the back. In his place stood- or rather, leaned- a pale-faced, shaking, boy, slumped against the doorframe. His hand gripped his left shoulder, the color draining from his knuckles. His steel blue eyes were rapidly flicking around the room.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, crossing the room to stand near his friend. "John, what's wrong? If you tell me what's wrong I can help you. John, focus on me. Keep your eyes fixed on me."

John reeled at his words as if he'd thrown a punch. He stumbled backwards and fell to his knees. Sherlock knelt next to him and gently tilted John's face up, trying to get him to focus and remember that he was in no danger. "John, let's return to Baker Street. We can talk there. Okay?" John gave a short nod but pushed Sherlock's hand away with a small grunt of impatience and frustration.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

Back at 221 B, John slumped into his armchair, having been speechless on the whole cab ride there. His face still echoed the tone of worn parchment. His hand strayed to his shoulder, pushing to stop blood flow on an imaginary wound. "John." Sherlock said softly, placing a cup of tea in front of him. John started, flinching, causing an unfamiliar ache to settle in Sherlock's chest.

Clearing his throat, he gestured for John to speak and leaned back into his chair, sipping gently on his tea as to not burn his tongue. "It was 21 months into my tour of Afghanistan. As you know, I was shot in the shoulder. You deduced that when we first met. It was in the heat of battle, both sides were shooting and men were falling left and right. We went from man to man, checking for the living." John's eyes grew unfocused, as if he was seeing something Sherlock couldn't.

"If they were still alive, then we sent them to the hospital and kept moving. There were doctors at the army hospital and there were doctors in the field. I was doing just that, but I happened upon this one soldier. Could have happened to anyone really. It was an American, just some guy, from New Hampshire, I think. I don't think he knew what he was getting into. He had been shot, bad, in the upper thigh and he was bleeding out. He wouldn't have made it as far as the hospital. I did my best to stop the bleeding. Tore out part of his uniform and tied a tourniquet. Well, I tried to tie it. I was tr- try- trying." John couldn't get the words out; he coughed a few times to cover his voice cracking.

"I was trying. To tie the tourniquet, that is. But I was shot from behind before I could finish it. I was thrown forward and knocked unconscious on a rock on the ground. I don't know if he made it. When I woke up, the field was just… Jesus, Sherlock, it was indescribable. The dust was stained the color of rust and bad red wine. And there were people walking around, stepping on bodies, bodies of people who had died for their country. They were searching for anyone still alive. And they found me. Took me back to their camp, drugging me—" John cut his words off with a choking sound. Sherlock took a calculated risk and leaned forward; touching John's arm to bring him back to the real world.

John's eyes focused back on Sherlock and he gave a small nod; Sherlock removed his hand and leaned back again. "They drugged me with hemlock. It's not all paralysis and suffocation. It started with nausea and then moved on to abdominal pain." John was speaking like a doctor, listing symptoms in a detached way. "When you're paralyzed by hemlock, you still feel everything. Everything."

"They tried to get secrets. They'd beat me all day and then ask me questions in the morning. I don't even remember the questions they asked, it was a haze. All I remember were the whips, the irons, the guns, the swords, anything they could get their hands on, they used." His voice shook. "Here, just look." John stood up and pulled his jumper over his head, tossing it to the side. He began to unbutton his shirt, showing a cheap, cotton, white t-shirt, which he took off as well. As each new bit of skin appeared, Sherlock's mouth dropped ever so slightly.

Scars laced the chest and back of who Sherlock had thought was his doctor, his controlled, simple doctor. He couldn't withhold a small gasp as John's shoulder was revealed, an ugly, pink, twisted scar, about the size of a golf ball. It looked as if a small cannonball had ripped its way through the good doctor's shoulder instead of a bullet. Sherlock rose to his feet, taking two short strides over to John. "John." His fingers lightly traced over the scars that wrapped around his friend's torso like some sort of sick ribbon. John shivered, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Sherlock took his hand back, still stunned at the reveal. "Would it be worth it?" he asked, meeting John's eyes.

"What?" John pulled his shirt back on, mussing his hair.

"Would it be worth it?" Sherlock sighed at John's confusion and gestured animatedly with his hands. "If he survived. Would it all be worth it if that soldier survived? The American one."

John straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind his back, every bit the soldier Sherlock had first noticed. "Am I selfish if I say no?" He let out a short chuckle, glancing at his feet. "Yes." His face grew more somber. "It would be worth it then."

Sherlock nodded, and then hesitantly pulled John into a stiff and awkward hug, giving two pats on the back. John was surprised, but appreciated the attempt at comforting nonetheless. He cleared his throat, releasing the lanky detective and took a seat in his armchair again. "So that's it, then. That's the whole story."

"How long did they have you? How did you get out? John, I hate to correct you at a time like this, but that is most certainly not the whole story." Sherlock said in his matter-of-fact tone.

"Sherlock..." John said warningly.

"For that matter, who was 'they'? Did you tell them anything? What did it—" Sherlock was cut short by an outburst from John.

"Sherlock, I don't want to talk about it! It was not a good experience and I'd prefer not reliving it just to satisfy your incessant need for answers to every last detail! They had me for 5 months, I was rescued on accident by a platoon who got lost on their way to a different camp, 'they' were members of the Taliban, and no, I did not tell them anything. I already told you I don't remember what they asked, so you can take that question and shove it. Now, SHUT UP!" John rose to his feet around halfway through his little speech, seeming to tower over the much taller man. He was breathing heavily and Sherlock, for a brief moment, wondered about his family's history with heart disease.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock cast his eyes downward, humbled in the face of a man who was far braver than Sherlock could ever remember being. John looked a little surprised at his usually cocky and stubborn friend apologizing. "I wasn't thinking, I am sorry for causing you undue injury. We can slow the cases down if you'd like."

John hated to admit weakness, but he nodded slowly. "Maybe that'd be best." He thought he saw a flash of disappointment in Sherlock's eyes, but it was gone so quickly he must have imagined it. "I think I'm going to head to bed now." Sherlock didn't acknowledge this, but just returned to his chair, thumping down into it, which earned a quick smile from John before he turned and went into his room.


	3. Chapter 3

******Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

After John had retreated to his room, Sherlock strode over to his desk and flipped his laptop open. He opened his browser and looked up John Watson. He hadn't done this before, as he thought he knew everything he needed to about his blogger. Newspaper articles, blogs, even fanpages came up, but they were all about the both of them, Holmes and Watson. Sherlock bookmarked a few to critique later and maybe to try and make John laugh. After finding some that he thought might earn a chuckle, Sherlock continued with his mission.

Skipping a few pages of results, he was able to find the start of John's military time. "Soldier captured, MIA," "Search for Watson Unsuccessful," "John Watson Found in Enemy Camp," "Soldier Returned Home," and many other articles detailed the story of brave soldier Watson, a very different man than the one Sherlock knew. The pictures showed a hardened warrior, dust smeared across his face, and a pair of circular dog tags hanging from his neck. Sherlock drew up an image in his mind of his John, a smiling, softened doctor who wears collared shirts and thick sweaters. He didn't think either man would have recognized the other. Side by side, they were two different people, one rough and eager, the other more controlled and patient.

There was another photo, on an article about John's return. It must have been just after he had gotten back. It wasn't official, but Sherlock thought, perhaps taken by his sister or a girlfriend. He was sitting in a dark red chair, wearing a gray t-shirt that looked out of place on John, but hugged his still toned muscles. The walking cane he had used when Sherlock had first met him leaned against his leg and he was smiling one of his John smiles, crooked and slightly open, as if he'd just seen the most wondrous thing. Sherlock remembered the first time John had looked at him like that.

It had been at Angelo's during their first case, the one John so ridiculously named "A Study in Pink." Sherlock had glanced over to see if John was losing interest in him and instead saw this incredulous grin. For a brief moment, his mind had gone blank and that smile was taken and catalogued and put into a room in his mind palace. Each smile after that had been put into the same room along with each hideous jumper and each crime scene compliment. There was a John room in Sherlock's mind palace and he had never once thought of deleting it to make room for more important things because there wasn't anything with more value to him.

Sherlock scoffed at his own thoughts. _Sentiment_, he reminded himself, _is a trait found on the losing side._ Even so, he couldn't stop himself from smiling to himself. Part of him was a little hurt that John didn't want to solve as many cases with him, but Sherlock knew he was being selfish and shouldn't blame John because who would, after all that man had been through? An image of John's torso flashed in Sherlock's mind and he shuddered to think of the pain he had endured.

The usual mutters began from John's room, but this time Sherlock couldn't ignore them. There was something about their pleading nature that tugged at him. Sighing, and rising to his feet, he walked over to the room much like the first time this had happened. He cracked the door, expecting a gun to the face, but was instead greeted with John slowly lifting his head. His eyes were rimmed with red and his face a dusty ashen color.

John stood and walked over, his steps forceful on the wooden floor. He jammed his finger into Sherlock's chest and pushed him against the wall. "J-John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, confused and more than a little frightened.

"You did this to me, you filthy bastard." John spat, specks of saliva hitting Sherlock in the face.

"Did what?" His voice shook and his hands trembled at his sides. John was thrown back to the ground as if shot, a red stain spreading from his left shoulder. As Sherlock watched in horror, more stains began spreading, blood seeping from scratches all over John's body. His white cotton shirt grew crimson and John lay on the floor, choking on his own blood.

"You did this to me." John coughed out. Sherlock dropped to his knees beside John, trying to stop the bleeding. His eyesight was blurred by tears he didn't even know were forming. Wherever Sherlock touched, scarlet followed, his fingertips doing as much damage as the sharpest knife. And John just laid there, his once clear blue eyes growing dimmer.

Sherlock sobbed, his hands frantically flying around John's chest, still trying to hold the wounds shut. He cried out to Mrs. Hudson for help, for Lestrade, for Molly. He needed someone to help him, to take care of John, to save him. But no one came, and John's head thumped to the ground, the life drained from his eyes and body.

Sherlock woke with a start, nearly toppling out of his chair. He glanced at his hands, expecting to see them drenched in the blood of his roommate. Instead, the pale slender fingers stared accusingly back at him. He couldn't get the image of John out of his mind, the way he had told him it was his fault. It was true; Sherlock had invited John into the world of crime and murder. John had followed and Sherlock hadn't given it a second thought.

Glancing at his computer screen, the laughing eyes of saved soldier John Watson stared back. This time Sherlock could see the dark shadows in them, the sleepless nights and the hollow soul. Touching his cheeks, Sherlock realized he was crying. Whether it was left over from the dream or from the realization that he no longer knew his best friend, Sherlock wasn't sure.

He slammed shut the laptop and went into the kitchen to brew a cup of tea, but his hands were shaking too much, so he just sat in his chair. His fingers drummed on the arms and he needed something to do. He returned to the kitchen and opened a cabinet above the fridge that was too high for either John or Mrs. Hudson to reach. Sherlock pulled out a small jar with a plastic bag in it. Inside the plastic bag was a surprisingly large amount of heroin, a fine white powder.

Sherlock didn't have the time or the patience to boil and inject, so he tapped out a line and snorted it off the counter. He knew he was wasting it, but when he felt the effects settling in, his muscles relaxed and he willingly let himself be taken into the familiar and comfortable embrace of the drug. He replaced the jar and returned to his chair in the living room, already disregarding his dream. Sherlock let himself drift off into a dream like state and realized he didn't care if John found him high tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

John woke up with a gasp and pushed his slightly damp hair off his forehead. Staggering up from his bed, he stumbled out into the hallway, squinting at the bright lights of the kitchen. The first time he walked by Sherlock, he didn't even notice the slumped figure. He began boiling water for tea and hopped up onto a counter to sit and wait. It was then that his eyes scanned the sitting room and spotted the detective. "Oh, God, Sherlock," John muttered as he sprinted across the two rooms, vaulting his own armchair.

Lifting Sherlock's head, he opened one of his eyes and checked his pulse. The pupils were small and the pulse faint. "Shit," John muttered, grabbing his mobile from his desk and dialed 999. "Yeah, hello? I think we've got an overdose at 221 B Baker Street. Faint pulse, small pupils, and I'm not sure if he's breathing." John frantically listed symptoms at the emergency services operator. He knew he should be calm, he faces death on a regular basis, but when it was Sherlock's life on the line, things were different. He barely heard the words the operator was saying, but the sirens outside woke him out of his reverie.

John rode in the back of the ambulance, phoning Mycroft the moment he'd entered. Their phone conversation was quick and concise, containing only the words "Overdose" and "Bart's." Mycroft didn't sound pleased, but neither was John. Next, John phoned Molly, who required more words than Mycroft. Their conversation was too long for John's liking; by the time they finished, the ambulance was pulling up to Bart's Hospital.

John sat in the waiting room, watching Mycroft rush in, all coat and umbrella. Only family was allowed, no matter how much John protested. He had only agreed to sit in the waiting room after the nurse had promised to fetch him at any change. So John just sat, nervously bouncing his leg. The elderly lady next to him struck up a conversation. She was there because her grandson had swallowed a Lego and they were x-raying him to see if it was stuck. But John, usually so social and friendly, was fairly rude and didn't respond with more than a nod.

Mycroft Holmes didn't spare his brother's flatmate a glance, but simply brushed by him. He appreciated the call, but blamed John for being careless and not watching him. Mycroft also blamed himself, but he wouldn't admit that. They should have observed Sherlock and noticed something, anything, a sign. This scene was far too familiar to Mycroft. The white sheets, pale face, and incessant beeping of different machines seemed like something out of a bad movie.

The first time Sherlock had overdosed, he had been 16. Mycroft had been 23 and had come home from university just to wait by his bed all night, even after his parents went home. Sherlock had woken up and told his older brother what an idiot he was for coming home when he was obviously fine. Mycroft had been slightly hurt but left the day after, leaving his phone number to the nurses in case his little brother came in again. The second time had been 3 weeks later and he had not been happy to receive that call.

Mycroft waited outside the room as doctors rushed in and out, each thinking that they had better things to do than care for some 30 year old junkie at 4 in the morning. Eventually a nurse stepped out. "His condition is stable. We will call you if there is any change, Mr…?"

"Holmes."

The nurse's eyes widened with recognition and her mouth formed an "o" shape. Mycroft groaned inwardly and silently cursed his brother's wide-spread reputation. Not wanting to hear any ramblings about the amazing things Sherlock can do, he turned around and walked briskly away, leaving the slightly stunned nurse to do her job and take care of the great detective.

John rose to his feet as Mycroft entered. His eyes asked the question for him, and the older man responded with a shrug. John sat down again, not sure of what to do. Mycroft sighed and felt a little bad for the confused doctor. He walked over and placed a hand on John's shoulder, surprising John. The Holmes boys weren't usually prone to physical contact, especially when it involved emotion. "You should go home, John. There's nothing you can do from this waiting room and they will call us with any change. Just try to get some sleep." John nodded absentmindedly and Mycroft left, knowing that John would stay in that hospital until Sherlock woke or died.

The elderly woman turned to John again and tried to talk to him, but John stopped her with a finger. "I'm really sorry, but I've got to go see my friend." He pushed himself up and walked over to the desk to try to plead with them one more time.

The nurse on duty glanced up and asked, "Watson?" John was surprised, but nodded. "You can go in, Room 27." John followed the nurse's directions and found the room with ease. The door was ajar and John leaned against the door frame, watching Sherlock's machines beep. The detective looked so small against the stark white of the hospital pillows, his dark curls standing out against the purity. John had seen so many bodies in his lifetime, he didn't know what he would do if he had to see Sherlock's.

He stepped into the room, the floor creaking. He cringed for a moment, but Sherlock didn't stir. _Of course he didn't, you bloody idiot,_ John berated himself, _he's unconscious._ John eased himself into the uncomfortable white plastic chair, running his hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes. Given that he didn't often sleep, and when he did, it was restless, his exhaustion made sense but still Watson forced his eyes open, the ever vigilant soldier. He watched the blips on the heart monitor, feeling his own heart thump just slightly off time with Sherlock's.

John must have fallen asleep at some point that night because he was woken rather abruptly by a fit of coughing. His hand flew to his waistband where his gun was usually tucked. "You can't bring your gun to a hospital, that much should be obvious," a weak voice croaked from the bed. John shot to his feet, ignoring sharp pain in his leg, and stepped next to Sherlock's bed. He was awake, but still looking weak.

"You. Utter. Cock." John swore, slamming his hand down on one of the rails next to the bed. "What were you thinking? You could have died, Sherlock, died!" Sherlock looked mildly perturbed at the sudden movement.

"Relax, John, I was fine."

"Fine? No, Sherlock, you were not fine. You were nearly dead when I found you. I would know, I am a doctor. So I don't think you were fine." John's voice grew in volume and intensity. His grip tightened on the side of the hospital bed. Sherlock tried to respond, but it came out gravely and turned into another bout of coughing.

"Sherlock, I can't do this. I can't watch you decline like this." John shook his head, biting his lower lip.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

"It means you have to find yourself a new blogger." John said, his voice steady and quiet for the first time since Sherlock had woken up. "I was 12 feet away, you could have come to me for help if you felt like using again, but you didn't. I can't help you if you refuse help. So I have to leave because I can't watch this. God knows how Mycroft does it time after time."

Sherlock looked like he had been slapped. "John. What are you saying?"

"Christ, Sherlock, can't you hear? I'm going." John sighed and took a step away from Sherlock's bed.

"Going where?"

"I'm just going Sherlock. I'm just going." John looked more tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked hollow. "I've got to go."

Sherlock grew angry. "What, you aren't even going to try to help me? You're just going to leave and abandon me? You're just like the rest of them, John Watson! You're just like all of the others who left! I was wrong about you, you will always be another heartless soldier!"

John bent his head as Sherlock threw his words at him. "I'm sorry you think that, Sherlock." He turned and walked towards the door.

"COWARD!" Sherlock shouted after him, chucking his pillow at the slightly hunched back. "Coward…" Sherlock whispered as his only friend left him. He repeated it over and over until the mutterings turned into tears and quiet sobs. The nurse fetched him a new pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

John left the hospital, Sherlock's words still ringing in his ears. He was a coward, wasn't he? He couldn't be bothered to help out his best friend. _No,_ John reminded himself, _Sherlock doesn't want my help. He could have asked, but he didn't. Any trouble he is in right now is his own fault. _But John didn't believe himself. Despite this, when he arrived at 221 B, he still pulled out his suitcase and began packing neatly.

Halfway through, John's phone rang. Mycroft was calling. John ignored the call, sending one of the most powerful men in British government to voicemail. Grimacing, John stood up, reminded of the presence of drugs in his flat. He scoured the kitchen and Sherlock's room, as well as the bathroom and living room. He couldn't find anything until he glanced up. Of course, it would make sense for Sherlock to hide it in a place that would be quite difficult for John to reach. As it happens, John had to climb on top of the counter like a child just to open the cabinet.

Upon finding the stash, John swore violently and promptly nearly fell of the counter. He emptied the powder into the toilet and flushed it with something that resembled glee. But his mood was soon dampened when he returned to his room and saw his half-packed suitcase. He sighed and pushed his hand against his forehead. Though he wasn't sure he wanted to, John walked over to the unfinished luggage and pushed more pleated pants and carefully creased shirts into the maw of the main compartment.

John Watson usually liked moving. Moving meant change and something new and usually he welcomed that. But this time, it was all wrong. The suitcase made an accusing noise as it thumped down the stairs, each muffled bang echoing Sherlock's shouts. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her room. "Going somewhere, John?" Her eyes fell on the suitcase and flicked back up to John's serious face. "You're not…" She asked, looking slightly horrified. "Not after this has just happened? Oh, John."

John smiled halfheartedly at her. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He hugged her goodbye. "Keep me updated on him, alright? And, go easy on him about the rent." She nodded, too choked up to talk. The landlady had half- expected him to stay forever, just Sherlock and him, solving cases until they grew old and gray. Even then, Sherlock would try to chase criminals through the darkened streets of London.

The thought brought a small smile to John's face, which he quickly banished. He thought about explaining his reasoning but knew that it really didn't make much sense to him either. Sherlock didn't seem to need or want him anymore. _Otherwise, why would he have just let me sleep while he was getting high in the room over?_

After stepping outside the warm confines of 221 B, John was gripped with a flooding panic. Where was he going to stay? All he had was in the suitcase dragged behind him and the backpack he'd slung over his shoulder. His first thought was to call Molly, but he didn't want to trouble her. So he pulled out his phone to call Mike and saw the voicemail alert. He dialed and listened to what Mycroft had to say.

_"I was originally calling to tell you that Sherlock had woken up but from what he's told me, you already know. What are you thinking, Watson? My brother is not a toy you can simply throw away when you are done with him. I understand that you are in a difficult situation, but so is Sherlock. As much as it pains either of us to admit, he needs you in his life and that, doctor, is no small matter. So please, if you value the sanity of the Holmes brothers, return to 221 B at once."_

Here, Mycroft paused. _"That being said, however, there is still a large chance that you will leave anyway. If you do decide to leave, there's a place you can stay at. Brecknock Road, N7. I will expect you to pay rent, 700 a month." _John groaned at the rent. He didn't make that much with his smattering of jobs across London. Of course, given that he'd quit the most time consuming job he'd ever had, taking care of Sherlock, he would have time to find a real one. _ "If that's too much for you, I'd be more than happy to let you wander the streets of London. This is a temporary setup, until you get your own apartment."_

Mycroft's call ended there. John almost hailed a cab, but he'd had an issue trusting cab drivers since the Study in Pink. He shook his head, berating himself for reminiscing about the times with Sherlock. That era was over, he needed to move on. It'd take him around an hour to walk there, so he gritted his teeth and got into the black taxi that pulled over to pick him up.

The cab driver recognized him from his blog and the papers and spent the next 10 minutes asking him questions about why he had a suitcase and was he moving out and so many others that John lost count. It was at that moment that John decided to grow a beard so people wouldn't recognize him. Unfortunately, beards do not grow in 10 minutes so John was still given questioning looks from people who thought he couldn't see them. With an exasperated sigh, he entered his building asked the guy working there for his key.

As soon as he heard Mycroft's name, he handed him the key and busied himself with papers that even a doctor could tell weren't about the flats. John headed to his room on the first floor and unlocked it. The apartment was simple, no decorations. Well, maybe simple was too kind a word. It was barren. It looked as if no one had lived there, ever. John got a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had made an arrangement to rent it just for him, and that was why the man upfront looked so alarmed.

But John didn't really care. He was away from the toxic, drug-stuffed environment of 221 B. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and onto the floor, taking steps further into the flat. It wasn't big, just one bedroom, one bathroom, and a small sitting room with an adjoining kitchen. The suitcase made harsh clacking sounds on the hard wooden floor, so different from the sounds back on Baker Street. He laid it on the bed and unzipped it, filling the empty drawers next to his nightstand.

Walking into the kitchen, the stark white appliances stared at him with critical eyes. John grimaced at the bare cupboards and made plans to go out tomorrow and stock them. Mycroft had told him this was only temporary, so not with a lot of food, just enough to get him by until he found a job and a place of his own. Reminded of jobs, he pulled his computer from his backpack and opened it, taking a seat on his bed.

There were a new email from Molly and 5 from Mrs. Hudson. He clicked on one from Molly. The subject line read "JOB OFFER" and was fairly short, just telling John about a position at Bart's that was available if he was interested. He was, and bookmarked the site she linked in the email. All of the emails from Mrs. Hudson were titled "SHERLOCK HOLMES". John closed his eyes and shut his laptop, leaving 5 emails unread.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

Sherlock was not faring as well as his previous flatmate. Nurses had complained and, if his count was correct, around 11 of them had asked to be transferred to a different area of the hospital. He was going for a record. Mycroft groaned from the chair by his bed as the 12th nurse stormed out, Sherlock having just screamed obscenities at her. "How long with this ridiculousness go on, brother mine?"

"It is not ridiculous and it will go on until John visits and talks to me." Sherlock sat, his posture similar to that of a pouting child, his arms crossed in front of the white gown. "Also, I don't understand why I still have to be here. I recovered, so I can go home. It's fine, really."

"No, Sherlock, you can't go home and you have not recovered. I will see what I can do about John, but I cannot promise you anything. He left for a reason you know." Mycroft moved his head into Sherlock's line of sight even as the 30 year old child looked away pointedly. "Why, Sherlock? Why didn't you go to him for help?"  
"Because he had just bared his soul through a heartfelt confession of wartime horrors, and I wasn't about to go bothering him with a simple high!" Sherlock shouted, causing a nurse outside to start and turn around to walk quickly away. "Not when he has far greater issues than his needy flatmate. Or, rather," Sherlock let out a hard laugh, "former flatmate."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, it wasn't a simple high, you nearly died! If you think I am just going to sit by and watch you destroy the relationships with everyone you love, then you are even stupider than I thought. And, you know that John would help you no matter what. He doesn't care that he has his own issues, John Watson is a doctor and that is what doctors do."

Sherlock sighed. "Well then, Mycroft, I think I am in need of a doctor." He put his head in his hands. Mycroft left, grumbling about emotions. Sherlock wiped his face as the new nurse entered. He gestured aimlessly to nothing in particular. "You can do whatever, I won't bother you this time. I don't think I'll be bothering anyone for a while."

When Sherlock returned to 221B a week later, Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a warm smile and a plate of equally warm biscuits. He managed to reply with a smile and a nod, taking a biscuit to be polite. On the way up the stairs after ignoring Mrs. Hudson's pestering questions, Sherlock wondered when he had ever done something just to be polite. Must be John rubbing off on him.

He half expected to see the short blogger bustling about the flat, complaining about skulls and fingers in the fridge. But instead of that, there was silence and dust collecting on the shelves. Everything was right where he left it, except… Except the small plastic bag of white powder. "Damn it, John!" He shouted, shoving a vase off a shelf. He wasn't even sure why he had a vase, but it had just showed up one day and it wasn't important enough for him to complain.

There was a faint "Ooh!" from Mrs. Hudson downstairs and then silence. The kind of silence that presses on the ears and is so quiet it hurts. Sherlock picked up his violin, but couldn't find a tune he wanted to play. So, setting it down, he swiveled around to face the rest of the flat. John's armchair was still there. That would have to go; there was simply no room for it. Sherlock turned it on its side as he walked past to go to the second bedroom.

The bed was made with hospital corners and some of the drawers were still partially open. All evidence that someone had lived there was removed, except for the pens and paper on the desk. Sherlock walked in and closed each drawer with a soft thump. His face was impassive and stoic but his fingers betrayed his emotions, flicking against each other at his sides.

Days slipped by, but John never called. Molly came by to see how he was doing and to let him know that John was working at Bart's if he ever wanted to visit. Sherlock never did. Lestrade stepped in to update him on cases if he ever wanted to drop by a crime scene. Sherlock never did. What was the point? John wasn't going to be at the crime scenes and John wouldn't forgive him for interrupting his work.

Mycroft had had enough from his younger brother and finally put his foot down. Sherlock was moping, and his older brother stormed in. "Well, hello, brother mi-" Sherlock was cut short. Mycroft grabbed a fistful of his shirt and brought him to his feet from the chair he had been sitting on.

"John has found a job; he's even got his own flat. Isn't it time you stopped throwing yourself this little pity party, and got out there to do something?" Mycroft said and though his voice was quiet, it was dangerous. "Get off your sheet-wearing ass and get over John. It's time, Sherlock. If I don't hear that you've gone to Scotland Yard within the hour, there will be hell to pay." With that, he let go of Sherlock and left, leaving the younger man to readjust his shirt.

Sherlock wasn't headed to Scotland Yard as his feet pounded on the pavement. He drew to a halt, staring at the imposing building that was Bart's Hospital. His eyes flicked up and down, searching each of the windows for the familiar form of John Watson. He was nowhere to be found, but that didn't surprise Sherlock. It was Wednesday, so John was working. Probably in surgery right now.

Entering the hospital, he was reminded of every hospital he had been in. No matter how different the infrastructure, every hospital looked the same. And that infernal smell clung to the inside of Sherlock's nose. Clearing his throat, he walked over to the receptionist, a nurse with short red hair. "Is there a John Watson working here?" He asked, giving her a fake smile.

She barely glanced up at him, but kept typing on her computer. "I'll let him know someone dropped by, but he's very busy at the moment." She looked up at him when he kept standing there, and recognition dawned on her. Sherlock could see the thoughts racing through her mind as she scrambled to figure out what to do. Eventually, she must have come to a conclusion, because she spoke. "He's in surgery right now, but when he's done, you can meet him in the doctor's lounge. Just down the hall, up the stairs, and it'll be on your right." She handed him a guest ID card and turned back to her computer.

Once Sherlock had accomplished his goal, he followed the nurse's instructions and arrived just outside of the lounge. There were a few TV's, two of which had football matches and the other had a cooking show. A buffet full of cafeteria food was in an adjoining room for lunches and there was a small table and bench for you to sit while you enjoyed your meal. Sherlock wasn't much for waiting, but he bought some noodles and took a seat to watch an incredibly pointless football match.

John had just finished up his surgery, some idiot had swallowed a key to see if he could get it back up, but it hadn't come up. Instead, the key had brought up all sorts of issues in the man's stomach and he had to have surgery to remove it. But now that he was recovering in a separate room, key-free, John went in for lunch. He brought his own lunch to save money, but he ate in the lounge anyway. Catching sight of a football game on, he jogged over to grab a chair, his paper bag bouncing at his side. Taking a seat, he was abruptly interrupted by piercing multicolored eyes on an angular face that stared at him in surprise. Sherlock Holmes had never seen John with a beard.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

John's face split into a smile. "Sherlock, I haven't seen you in forever. How've you been?" He crossed the room to sit next to the dark haired man. Sherlock, on the other hand, was at a loss for words. John shifted awkwardly as the silence drew on. "Sherlock?"

"You've grown a beard."

"I have, yes. Thought it might make people stop staring at me in the street." John chuckled, "How have you been, though? Last I saw, you were lying on a hospital bed."

"Where you left me, if my memory serves." Sherlock retorted, his tone hard. John withdrew a little, hurt. He'd thought Sherlock would be as excited to see him as he was to see Sherlock. Evidently he was wrong.

"We aren't doing this here." John stated quietly.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, nearly knocking his noodles off the side table next to him. "Why not here? If we don't do it now, are you going to just pretend it didn't happen like you do with all of your issues? My flatmate overdosed? Guess I better move away!" Sherlock's voice rose and he stood up, attracting glances from across the lounge. "And now you wonder why I'm not pleased to see you! You, John Watson, are afraid of everything. You are just a scared little boy!"

John sat in silence as Sherlock shouted. Each word took a physical toll on him, his shoulders dropping, and his face growing somber. "Are you d-"

"No, John, I am not done! You were too frightened to even face your own past!" Sherlock knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was crossing a line with this, but he was too caught up in his anger to care. "You didn't face what happened to you until you nearly passed out at a crime scene! At some point, Captain, you will have to accept that you were tortured for nearly half a year and you did not come out of that untouched!" Sherlock spat his rank at him like a verbal javelin.

Captain John Watson rose to his feet as if fired from a gun and tackled Sherlock to the ground, pinning him down and gripping his arms behind him. "You have no idea what you are talking about. This is one topic where you don't get to be the expert. I am dealing with what happened the way that I deal with things, so don't you dare. It happened to me; you are not the one who suffered that injury so you need to go now." John said it smoothly and didn't shout, but there was a rich fury behind his words.

Sherlock trembled from his position on the ground, real fear spreading through his veins. John let him go and stood up, letting Sherlock do the same. As soon as Sherlock was on his feet again, he looked at John and said, "You are wro-"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence because the gentle doctor punched him in the face and stole his noodles. John stormed out of the room, grabbing Sherlock's noodles on the way just because he was angry. The man simply didn't understand and he didn't want to either. John was in no mood to fight with someone as stubborn and ridiculous as Sherlock Holmes.

One of the doctors there went over to Sherlock to make sure he was okay. "My name is Dr. Doment. You've just been punched in the face by a staff member with around 14 witnesses. However, we will not be willing to testify in a court of law because you deserved it. That being said, do you need any medical attention? I think you're in the right place for that." His weak attempt at a joke made Sherlock even angrier and he shoved the doctor off of him.

"Your wife is cheating on you." Sherlock didn't really know if that was true, he hadn't cared to deduce, but it made the doctors leave him alone to let him lay on the floor, his nose dripping blood onto the beige floor below him. He regretted his actions, but didn't know how to make it up to John. Maybe Molly would.

She worked in a different section and Sherlock wasn't sure his guest card would let him into the morgue. He called her instead. "Molly, it's Sherlock." She tried to reply, but he talked over her. "Meet me in the doctor's lounge. It's urgent." He hung up without waiting for a response. Whether or not she came was of no importance to him, he could always go to her apartment. But, as it turned out, she did come, wearing an exasperated expression when she entered the room.

He was now sitting in one of the chairs, holding a napkin to his still bleeding nose. The lounge was clear of people, the fight having scared most of them away and the fact that a lot of people's lunch breaks were over was also a large contributing factor. Molly rushed over, worried. Sherlock waved her off with a hand, "I'm fine," though the words came out slightly nasal.

"Sherlock, what on earth happened?" Molly asked him, taking a seat beside him. "Did somebody beat you up?"

"Well, I think that last part was fairly obvious. John hit me." Sherlock said, not without a bit of peevishness. He sighed, and continued, "I was being rude, I suppose."

"I bet you were." Molly replied, matter-of-factly. Sherlock looked bewildered and surprised. "Well, if John hit you, you really must have messed up. I've never even seen him angry at you, let alone make your nose bleed. What'd you do?"

"I simply informed him that the way he coped with things was not reasonable and that he should find another mechanism to help deal. I may have also brought up traumatic events from his past to prove my point which was, in retrospect, a bad decision." Sherlock groaned. "It was just something I said because I was irate."

Molly nodded. "John is your best friend; you need to apologize to him." Sherlock got to his feet as if to go find John, but Molly pulled him back down. "Not right now, you brilliant fool. Later, when he's had time to cool off. Otherwise you're just going to get punched in the face again. So call him in a couple days and invite him round to Speedy's to talk." Molly rose from her chair. "Now, I'm going back to work, since I have a real job. Go to Scotland Yard and find yourself a case."

The petite brunette exited the lounge to return to the morgue, leaving the detective sitting with a small pile of bloody tissues. Sherlock sighed and left as well, not giving back the guest ID, just in case he needed it again. Mostly, he just wanted to know that he could get back to talk to John in case he refused the offer of Speedy's. Sherlock headed down to Scotland Yard, as it seemed like everyone he knew wanted him to go there.

When he arrived, a frazzled Detective Inspector greeted him. "Hello. Got a case for me, Grant?"

"It's Greg," Lestrade replied, "and as it so happens, I do. Not a very big one, none of those serial killers you like, but someone's been robbing people living in London. It's the same person, but no one has managed to get a description. And it's not just simple bag snatching; this thief is going into houses and stealing jewelry and cars, big ticket items. Anyway, we want you to examine a crime scene and see if you can find anything to hint as to the robber's identity."

"Who have the victims been? Is there any connection between them?" Sherlock asked, surprised that Greg hadn't given him that information to begin with.

"They are all rich, they all live in the same general area. In fact, Sherlock, they all live within a 5 mile radius from Regent's Park. You'll have to ask them the details yourself, there are around six or seven people who've been stolen from. We've got a crime scene for you to examine, then you can go ask them."

Sherlock grinned, excited to be back. He turned to say something to John, but couldn't find him. It took the detective a moment to remember that John wasn't there anymore. After a brief flash of sadness, Sherlock turned to Lestrade and faked a smile. He clapped him on the back. "The game is on, Griswold." Greg let that one go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

At the crime scene, Sherlock couldn't think straight. The clues weren't presenting themselves like they normally did, and he grew frustrated. Growling, he whirled on Lestrade. "Tell me everything you've found out about this robbery stretch."

Greg shrugged. "I basically did. Six victims, all rich, all within a radius of Regent's Park. All had jewelry stolen among other valuable things. Mostly rings. You seen anything in the crime scene?"

Sherlock grumbled and turned back to the scene. It was a bedroom, containing a very nice king sized bed, a few dressers, and two jewelry boxes. If he had to chose a place to rob, Sherlock would have picked this one as well. Even the outside of the apartment complex screamed rich. A sapphire necklace and a pair of gold earrings were stolen from beside the jewelry boxes but not touched anything in the jewelry box.

"It would be easier if I could see the items in question, but they are obviously not here." Sherlock said, a little irritated that he couldn't find any traces.

"We've got these pictures of her wearing them, but unfortunately, Sherlock, until you find the thief, we won't have the items in question." Greg handed him the photographs in question. Sherlock turned to examine them, but still couldn't see anything to pick out.

"I'm going to take these back to Baker St." He wandered out, ignoring Greg's protests about them being police property, and returned to 221 B, distraught about his lack of deductions. Sighing, he decided to call John. That could be the reason he couldn't think quite right; there was unfinished business between him and John.

The phone rang four times before John picked up. "What?" He answered with, his tone hard and unforgiving.

"John. I, uh, I wanted to apologize." Sherlock stammered, shifting his feet. He'd never apologized to someone before, or at least not made an apology he meant. "Will you meet me at Speedy's so we can talk?" John was silent on the other end, and Sherlock's heart dropped.

"Okay," came the reply several minutes later. "I'll meet you there. When? I get off work in an hour, how about then?" Sherlock sighed in relief.

"Yeah, that'll work great. I'll see you then, Dr. Watson." Sherlock hung up his phone. Now he just had to occupy himself for an hour. That wasn't too hard usually, but this time, the seconds seemed to tick by, each one slower and louder than the last. After five minutes, he leapt to his feet and paced. Ten more minutes past and Sherlock groaned. He couldn't wait another 45 minutes.

Picking up his violin, Sherlock began to play, hoping the time would go faster. It did not work. When the time finally came, Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf and nearly sprinted down to Speedy's. He arrived before John, which made sense, as John had just gotten off of work. Taking a seat at one of the café tables, he ordered two coffees and twiddled his thumbs.

John entered, looking tired, still wearing his lab coat. He shuffled over to Sherlock's table and slid into the seat. "Rough day?" Sherlock asked, sliding a coffee over to him.

He laughed and took a swig of the coffee. "You could say that." He glanced down at his attire. "Shit, I forgot to leave this at the office." John ran his hand through his hair, looking more tired and old than Sherlock had ever seen him. "Between the day and our little scuffle at lunch, I'm nearly dead on my feet, so please do not make me tackle you again because I might pass out on top of you."

Though Sherlock laughed, he felt a pang of sorrow shoot through his chest. "John, I shouldn't have said those things, I'm sorry. You deal with things just fine and it was cruel of me to bring up something that you had just confided in me." John waved him off with a hand.

"Sherlock, you do stupid shit sometimes, and this doesn't mean I'm not angry. I'm exhausted, and I don't have the energy to argue. Just because I moved out doesn't mean I don't still want to be your friend. I do. I just don't want to watch you destroy your life with that drug while I am in the room over." He sighed. "I can't do that anymore, that's why I left."

Just then, the bell on top the door to Speedy's jingled as a wealthy looking customer walked in. She ordered at the counter and then turned to sit outside. "So sorry John, this'll only take a moment." Sherlock sprang from the table and strode over to the rich lady. She looked slightly perturbed as he blocked her way to the door.

"What do you want?" She asked. There weren't many well-to-do customers who frequented Speedy's, which is why this one had drawn his attention.

"Do you come here often?" Sherlock asked, trying to gauge what she might be doing here.

The woman gasped, offended. "Are you trying to chat me up?"

John groaned from where he was seated and rushed over to help Sherlock out of this sticky situation. "No, I promise you, he's really not. He is probably actually trying to find out if you come to Speedy's a lot." He stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm John Watson, and this is the Sherlock Holmes."

She looked relieved and shook his hand. "Hello John, I'm Eva. It's an honor to meet the great detective, but I have to say, I don't understand why you're asking me questions. Is there an investigation?"

"Are you aware of the thefts going on around Regent Park?" Sherlock asked. "The details are rather secret, but a lot of well-to-do people around this area have been robbed, so I was wondering if Speedy's was a clue. Do you come here often and why are you here now?"

Eva shrugged. "They make a brilliant Chicken Escalope Pizzaiola. Just can't beat it anywhere else. Besides, when this place was struggling a few years ago, I helped back on their feet with some help from others in the neighborhood."

"Who are the others? I have to ask you to please be very specific." Sherlock asked, placing his fingers on his own temples.

She thought for a moment. "Around seven others from my book club. Jen Hasterlo, Michael Shade, Steven Wallace, Diana Mason, Isabel Douglas, James Collins, and Justice Reilly, I believe."

Sherlock cross-referenced those names with the list of people who had been robbed. "And what happened to Isabel? Is she still a member of your little book club?"

Eva looked confused. "No, she dropped out a while back. Not sure what happened after that. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, but I don't see what this has to do with Speedy's."

Sherlock groaned. "Of course you don't, you always see, but never observe! Isabel couldn't afford to stay in your neighborhood because it was getting too expensive, so she dropped out of your book club. She must have asked her friends for money, but you refused because you thought she was just being greedy." Eva's eyes grew wide, shocked. "So she had to move and grew angrier over time. So, now she is getting revenge by stealing from each one of you. Miss Eva, I'd lock your doors tonight if I were you."

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, unable to form words. "How- How can you know all of that? That's impossible." She left in a huff to go sit outside for her chicken escalope pizzaiola.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes excited and wild. "Come on, John, the game is on!" He grabbed John's wrist and tried to pull him along to run to Scotland Yard, but John pulled away.

"No, Sherlock, the game is tired. I'm going home. We can talk tomorrow after work." He tossed money on the table and picked up his coffee. "I'll call you, alright?"

Sherlock deflated. "Yeah, okay. It's just… I thought it might be like old times, you know. Just you and me, racing around London."

John shook his head wearily. "I'm sorry Sherlock, it's not going to be like that. Things are different. You used my past as a weapon against me. You aren't the man I used to race around London with." He looked into the taller man's eyes, the color dull. "I'll call you." And with that, the grey-haired doctor left with his coffee, his lab coat still on and catching the autumn wind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

Sherlock set off for Scotland Yard to tell George- or was it Gabe?- about his discovery. Something seemed amiss when he walked alone through the damp streets, a light rain falling on his shoulders. Plenty of people bustled by, knocking his shoulders, but he still couldn't take his mind of John's words.

He wasn't the man who used to run around London full of glee and ambition as well as a slight bit of arrogance. John's experiences in Afghanistan had changed them both. Sherlock felt a bit selfish for claiming John's struggles as his own, but he couldn't take back the heroin he had snorted, nor the words he had shouted.

After giving the news to Lestrade about the thieving ex-wealthy Isabel in a rather lackluster manner, he headed back to Baker Street to think. He had choice words to say to John, but he just didn't know them yet. Sherlock was sorry for all the pain he had caused his friend.

John was thinking similar thoughts from a few miles away. How could he be angry at Sherlock for being weak, when he was also weak? He'd been afraid to take responsibility for his suffering flatmate, and they'd both suffered because of it. Trying to sleep, he tossed and turned, plagued by these thoughts.

Throwing off the blankets, he threw on a coat over his pajamas and a pair of slippers. It was dressed like this that John Watson tore through the streets of London on his way to 221B. When he arrived, he almost didn't knock, but he'd received far too many strange looks for him to turn back and go home again.

Grabbing the knocker, John leapt backwards as it was unexpectedly ripped from his grasp. On the other side of the threshold stood an equally wild-eyed Sherlock, dressed in an equally ridiculous outfit. They stood like that for a moment before Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing John to enter.

Once they were both situated in their respective chairs, John began to speak. Sherlock attempted to cut him off, but he held up a finger to stop the flow of words from the detective's mouth. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I've been a rubbish friend. I shouldn't have left in the first place, but I was frightened. I am, as you said so many times, a coward, a scared little boy, but most of all, Sherlock, I am very attached to seeing you continue to live."

Here, John paused. "Part of me nearly died sitting in that ambulance with you, thinking you'd gone and overdosed. And seeing you in that hospital bed was nearly too much for me to take. Sherlock, I watch people die every day. Some of them die at my hands, with there being nothing I can do about it. I can't bear to watch you die because I wasn't quick enough or because I wasn't watching."

Unable to continue, he gestured for Sherlock to speak. He took a breath, then launched into what might have been the only heartfelt thing John had ever heard him say. "John, I know you have nightmares about what horrible things happened to you and I know that I have not made that any easier. I have been rude and insufferable and hurtful. But right now I'm going to be honest."

"There will never come a time when I don't need you. I will always beg for you to be by my side, but there will come a time when you no longer care for the adrenaline rush that comes as a side effect from working with me. One day you will wake up and realize that you no longer need me, that I am only worsening your condition. These are the nightmares that come to me."

John's eyes widened, but he let Sherlock continue. "I dream that I am killing you, John Watson and I couldn't live with myself if I was. So yes, I took drugs in secret with you slumbering not twenty feet away. I knew you would wake sometime that night and find me, but I no longer cared. You were dying at my hands and it was my fault."

John could take no more of Sherlock's confession and began his own. "What happened to me in that awful place years ago was no fault of your own. I still have nightmares; that is true, but I will always have nightmares. There are certain terrors that time cannot erase. I chose you, Sherlock. I could have moved somewhere else in England that I could actually afford on my army pension, but I chose you. And I will always choose you."

Sherlock clenched his jaw to try to stop emotion, but to no avail. "Sherlock, there is no one I would rather suffer with. Whatever you think you are doing to me, you are wrong. I chose this life, and I would choose it again. I refuse to watch you tear at yourself because you think you are hurting me. I'm a lot tougher than I look, Holmes, and I can handle myself, even against you."

John fell silent, his words echoing in the late night air. The only light in the room came from a small lamp on the mantle. Sherlock's cheekbones cast deep shadows down his face and the flat echoed with quiet. Finally Sherlock spoke, his voice raw and deep. "I never thought you couldn't handle yourself, but I also never understood why you put up with me day after day even though you were hurting. Why add insult to injury?"

"You daft, daft man." John shook his head slowly, a small smile spreading across his face. "You are my release, my drug. Every time we solve a case, that's my high. Watching you work and deduce gets me more intoxicated than hard liquor. And that frightens me, Sherlock. I am in love with you, and I am frightened."

Sherlock didn't think John had meant to say so much, so he didn't respond for a few moments. How could he respond, anyway? The man had just bared his soul, more so than when he had discussed his torture, and to top it all off, he'd confessed his love for Sherlock. Sherlock didn't love John, he simply didn't. It was no fault of John's, but rather that Sherlock had learned long ago that love didn't suit him.

So, when John cleared his throat awkwardly, Sherlock still wasn't sure of how to respond. For quite possibly the first time in his life, the detective was speechless. He opened his mouth to begin, then closed it again, reminding John of so many of their previous clients. At last, Sherlock Holmes found his voice.

"John, I told you long ago I consider myself married to my work. And while there is no doubt in my mind that you are an integral part of that work, I do not love you. I do not form romantic attachments to people, I never have. You are different to me in every way but that. You, John Watson, are my very best friend, the best man I've ever known, but I do not love you."

The gray-haired man nodded, as if expecting this, but still tensed his body as if warding off a blow. It pained Sherlock to see him like this, but it was better to tell him than to lead him on. At least this way, there was a chance of getting him back. John cleared his throat. "I know you don't love me, I never thought you did. But I wanted you to know that I love you. Think about that when you worry about me not needing you."

"Do you want to come back, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shaky and sounding rather childish, which he disliked immensely. "Back to Baker Street, that is."

John looked up at Sherlock, his expression unchanged. His gaze flicked back to the ground and then along the walls, not quite focusing on anything. Talking more so to himself than to Sherlock, he muttered, "Back to Baker Street."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.**

**This is the final chapter and I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and read it. There'll be more to come from me soon, I'm sure. Thanks again, and here you go.**

John moved back in the following Saturday, relieved that he wouldn't have to send checks to Mycroft anymore. Sherlock tried to make his adjustment go smoothly, but their friendship had been rocky ever since John's late night declaration. The nightmares continued, for both of them, but they were handled differently.

The soldier would stumble wearily out of his room in the wee hours of the morning, only to be met by an equally tired Sherlock and a warm cup of tea. They'd talk about their dreams, which provided varying levels of comfort for each party involved. Then, the two would return to their respective beds and fall back asleep, only to repeat the scene the next night.

Life went on for the detective and his blogger, they continued flying around the streets and catching the criminals. But, as Sherlock should have known, James Moriarty had ideas in mind for the two other than simple domestic life. No, the villain had much more devastating plans. However awful his scheme was, it was, at least, equally poetic.

It began and ended in Bart's Hospital. That was where John and Sherlock had first met, with an exchanging of handshakes and cell phones, a tightly knit bond was formed. So it was only right that the bond should break there as well. There were 3 gunmen, each pointed at three people, but Sherlock only ever said goodbye to one of the targets.

John Watson had stood out from the moment he'd entered that laboratory. Both lives had been reinvented after that first meeting, the fabric of fate remade. Sherlock was broken without his blogger, but that was a weakness he should have kept secret. Jim picked up on it and used the gentle doctor against Sherlock.

These thoughts raced through the brilliant mind so precariously balanced on that hospital rooftop. A stout figure climbed out of the cab, a phone pressed tight against his ear, and Sherlock knew that was him. "Turn around and walk back the way you came now." The rest of the words spilled from Sherlock's mouth as if they'd been waiting there the whole time.

"I can't come down, so we'll… We'll just have to do it like this." John's face drained of color as he realized what was happening. Sherlock desperately tried to convince his friend that all he was, all he had done, was a lie. The man down on the ground refused to believe it, but Sherlock held fast to his story, needing John to live, needing John to survive.

"This phone call. It's my note." Sherlock's resolve wavered and he made an adjustment to his speech. "Since I won't have the chance to say this later, I have to say it now. You told me once that you loved me, and you were scared."

"I don't see what that has to do-" came the protests through the small speaker on Sherlock's phone.

"Just let me speak, John." The silence that followed gave the ruined man permission to continue. "You told me once that you loved me. You said you were frightened. I need to know, John, what were you frightened of?"

"You" followed the response. "I was so frightened that you would leave and go somewhere else, not wanting to be weighed down by some bloody fool who was in love with you." John's voice faltered. "Sherlock, would you just tell me what is going on? Come down, and we can talk like normal men."

"Ah, but John, we aren't normal men. I am a fraud and you are exceptional. I am incapable of love and a right blasted fool when it comes to people, but I never wavered in my affections for you. I do not love you, John, but any affection I have for this world belongs wholly to you. I met you at a time when I needed you. I used to think that would go away, but it hasn't. My need for your companionship and for your steady thinking has been constant and at times, overwhelming."

"Sherlock…" The small head shook, seeming so insignificant from where Sherlock stood, but he knew better than to think that.

"Let me finish." His eyes filled with emotion that had been bottled up for months and months and tears finally slipped past those long eyelashes, blurring Sherlock's vision of the ground. He blinked rapidly to clear it, wanting to see John's form below. "This image in your head that you have of me, this picture of a hero, you need to change it. I am not a hero, I am afraid."

"You're wrong." John's voice was stronger than Sherlock had ever heard it, with conviction and assuredness behind it. "You're so wrong, please come down. Please, Sherlock." His voice broke as he pleaded, desperation giving him an edge.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Goodbye, John." He could hear the shout from below as he fell. John stood in utter horror, as his friend plummeted from the rooftop. There was no way back now. The detective was gone, his life's works unraveled, and his best friend wrecked.

"I checked his pulse myself. I saw him fall. Jesus, no one could survive that fall." John's words seemed to shake the fragile foundation of his mind, the walls threatening to tear down. His therapist nodded, and her pencil scratched against the paper, noting something that John didn't care about.

"Have you visited his grave?" She asked gently, as if afraid of breaking the thin barrier between sanity and mindless chaos. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. "Maybe you should go. Just talk it out. It might be good for you. I also think you should keep up your blog, just talking about what you do."

With a quiet shake of his head, the therapy session ended. After time passed, John fell into the old rhythms of life. He returned to his old job at Bart's and made friends with his colleagues, going out for a pint around every week. 221B remained his home, but slowly the traces of Sherlock faded into the background. There was no cup of tea waiting for him when he woke in the middle of the night, so John would make his own. Sherlock was an echo around the flat, no longer a looming presence, but the resident still felt the loss.

John did visit the grave, but not until a year later. He'd seen it before, for the funeral, which had been sparse and rather quiet. It was a glossy black headstone with two words etched into it with a sort of finality. There was no other inscription below his name, just Sherlock Holmes, standing out on a grave of otherwise mundane marble, just as he did when he was alive.

It was the kind of gravestone you couldn't look at for too long without being reminded of the ever-looming presence of death. John never wanted to go back, after the funeral, being reminded too much of his friend. But he broke down and visited on the anniversary of his death.

Sherlock wouldn't have liked that, he would have told John that it didn't matter what date he visited on, anniversaries were trivial and used as a means for businesses to make money off of people buying gifts. John didn't care, he paid for a bouquet of white roses and made the trip up to honor his friend.

He wasn't expecting to see someone already there. A hunched figure squatted in front of the stone, their hand resting on the top. John approached and asked, just loud enough for the person to hear, but not so loud as to disturb the unnatural peace of the graveyard, "Hey, you doing alright?"

The man turned, dried tear tracks tracing down his cheeks. John's flowers dropped to the ground. By God, he knew those cheeks, those angular features, the perfect Cupid's bow, the prominent cheekbones, and those glittering, multicolored eyes. He knew that man crying by Sherlock's grave, but it didn't make sense. How could he be there, how could he possibly be there?

The corners of the man's mouth tilted up slightly. "Hello John."

**The End**


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